Hunter took control of Garcia’s computer mouse and scrolled through the article. It was about five hundred words long. Garcia was right, it was too brief, mentioning what happened almost by passage. No specific details were given other than the ones involved. The victims had been Emily and Andrew Harper – mother and son, and Emily’s lover, Nathan Gardner. Emily’s husband, Ray Harper, had carried out all three executions before shooting himself in the couple’s bedroom. There were two pictures. The larger of the two showed a two-story white-fronted house with an impeccable lawn, completely surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape. Three police vehicles were parked on the street. The second picture showed a couple of county sheriff deputies bringing a dark polyethylene body bag out of the front door. The expression on their faces told its own story.

‘Is this the only article?’ he asked. ‘No follow-up?’

Garcia shook his head. ‘Nope, I’ve already checked. Nothing on the Harper case prior or after that date. Which again, I find hard to believe.’

Hunter scrolled up and checked the name of the newspaper – the Healdsburg Tribune. He checked the name of the reporter who covered the story – Stephen Anderson. After a quick search, he had the address and phone number for the newspaper headquarters.

The phone rang for thirty seconds before someone answered it on the other side. The person sounded young. He told Hunter that he’d never heard of a reporter called Stephen Anderson, but then again, he’d only been with the paper for six months. He was with the newspaper’s Sonoma University trainee program. After asking around, the kid returned to the phone and told Hunter that according to one of the most senior reporters, Mr. Anderson had retired nine years ago. He still lived in Healdsburg.

Hunter disconnected and got the operator for Sonoma County. Stephen Anderson’s name wasn’t listed. He clicked off again and called the Office of Operations. Less than five minutes later he had an address and phone number.

Eighty-Six

It was just past eight in the evening when Stephen Anderson answered his phone inside his home office on the outskirts of Healdsburg. Hunter quickly introduced himself.

‘Los Angeles Police Department?’ Anderson said, sounding worried. His voice was husky. Hunter could tell it came from years of smoking rather than natural charm. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right person, Detective?’

‘I’m certain,’ Hunter replied, motioning Garcia to listen in.

‘And what will this be about?’

‘An article you wrote twenty years ago flagged up on one of our searches. Unfortunately the article is quite brief. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind giving us a few more details on it.’

Even down the phone line, the silence that followed felt uncomfortable.

‘Mr. Anderson, are you still with me?’

‘Call me Stephen, and yes, I’m still here,’ he said. ‘Twenty years ago . . . That must be the Harper family murder tragedy.’

‘That’s right.’

A new brief silence. ‘You said my article flagged up in an LAPD investigation search. I’m guessing, a homicide investigation?’

‘That’s correct.’

Hunter heard the sound of a lighter being flicked a couple of times.

‘You have a victim over there that’s been stitched up?’

This time the silence came from Hunter. Anderson was quick on the uptake. Hunter chose his next words carefully.

‘It sounds like there could be similarities between the Harper case and one of our ongoing investigations, yes, but as I said, your article doesn’t describe what happened in great detail.’

‘And those similarities would be the stitching of the victim’s body?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Oh, c’mon, Detective, I spent thirty-five years as a reporter. I know that the similarities you’re referring to couldn’t just be a jealousy-fueled family murder/suicide, or someone blowing his head off with a shotgun. You’re an LA cop – the city where the freaks come out to play. You probably have crimes like those happening on your doorstep every week. From my article, the only unusual aspect about the Harpers incident is the mentioning of stitches.’

There was no doubt about it, Anderson was quick on the uptake. Hunter conceded.

‘Yes, we have a case here where stitches have been applied to the victim’s body.’

The silence returned to the line for a moment.

‘Do you remember any more details?’ Hunter pushed. ‘Or is the reason why your article was so brief with no follow-ups was because that was all the information you ever had on the case?’

‘Do you know anything about Sonoma County, Detective?’

‘The biggest wine production county in California,’ Hunter replied.

‘That’s correct.’ Anderson coughed a couple of times to clear his throat. ‘You see, Detective, Sonoma lives off its wine production county status in every possible aspect – not only by producing great wine. There are special events every month of the year all around the county which pull in the crowds. Agricultural festivals, holiday celebrations, street fairs, music carnivals and more. There’s always something happening somewhere.’

Hunter could already see where Anderson was going with this.

‘We can’t compare to Los Angeles or Vegas, but we have our share of tourists. Publicizing something as horrific as what happened that day would’ve benefited no one. The Tribune wouldn’t have sold any more copies than it did on a day-to-day basis either.’ Anderson coughed again, a lot heavier this time. ‘I didn’t get to see the scene, but yes, I did find out the details. On that same day I was approached by Chief Cooper and Mayor Taylor. We talked for a long time, and it was decided that it would be in the town’s best interests if the paper didn’t sensationalize the story, and by that I mean I agreed to play it down. So between the police, the mayor and the paper, a very heavy lid was placed over the whole incident.’

‘We really need to know those details, Stephen.’

The pause that followed felt laden.

‘You’re not gonna be breaking your promise to the police chief or the mayor,’ Hunter insisted. ‘None of what you tell me will go any further, but I do need to know those details. It could save lives.’

‘It’s been twenty years, I guess,’ Anderson said after taking a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Where would you like me to start?’

Eighty-Seven

‘I knew the Harpers quite well,’ Anderson began. ‘You have to understand that Healdsburg isn’t a big town, even today. Back then we didn’t have more than maybe nine thousand people living here. Ray Harper was a shoemaker and his wife, Emily, was a teacher in the primary school. They’d been married for over fifteen years, and I guess, like in so many longstanding marriages, things weren’t a bed of roses any more.’

Hunter was busy taking notes.

‘Emily started sleeping with another schoolteacher, Nathan Gardner, which in a city this small, isn’t a very smart idea, unless you think you’re invisible.’

Hunter heard Anderson take another drag of his cigarette.